


A rose unblown

by historymiss



Category: Gideon the Ninth
Genre: Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21745282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: Cytherea confronts Dulcinea, before everything that came next.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	A rose unblown

You meet your death a few hours after you board the shuttle to the Lyctor trials. She glides towards you like oil over water, like smoke, like something swimming deep and hidden in your veins.

“Who are you?” Your voice is level, but more because you haven’t got the energy to be frightened. Screaming is for women who don’t have to struggle to fill their lungs.

“Cytherea the First.”

And then you _are_ afraid, because the Seventh Lyctor raises her hand and kills your cavalier, your oldest and only friend, swift as a thought.

You scream, though you cannot sustain it, and it ends somewhat pathetically in a thick, wet cough that splatters red across your lap. The Lyctor tuts, softly, and wipes the blood from your chin with her thumb, and try as you might to summon your power, you cannot do a thing against her.

Cytherea has soft brown curls that frame a face made narrow by illness, skin marbled by blue veins that are too obvious to be delicate or lovely. She grins at Protesilaus as he stands to defend you, and her teeth are crooked and loose from long periods of being fed by a tube.

She looks like you.

“Thank god we‘re alike.” She murmurs, inflecting the second word slightly so it lands hard and ironic. “This is going to be easier than I thought.”

No one ever explains things to you, so you’ve gotten good at guessing. Your eyes narrow as you understand that she’s here to steal your chance at Lyctorhood and all the unspoken hopes that had come with it.

“You have had your chance.” You choke out, the panic settling like fluid in your lungs. “Please.”

“Wasn’t much of a chance, my love.” Cytherea studies you, head cocked. “It isn’t what you think.”

“Let me find out.” 

She sighs, more of a wheeze than a huff.

“And let the Seventh have another perfect, preserved princess?” The Lyctor shakes her head. “Better to end it here.”

“Better for you.” You can’t disguise the anger in your voice. It’s probably stupid to antagonise her, but you must try _something_ , sitting here with Pro’s slumped form at your feet.

She shrugs, _good point_ , like this is some kind of reasonable debate.

“The most you’ll ever be able to aspire to is a good death.” Cytherea draws closer, and you see, finally, that her eyes are not the washed out, sickly green of your own. They are, instead, a cold and bottomless blue.

“Why not have it mean more?” 

You have no words left for her. All that is in your mouth is grief for Protesilaus, and the bitter taste of iron.

The last thing you see as Cytherea descends on you is the bright ball of the First House hanging in the black.


End file.
